


A Tesco Interlude

by Theeniebean



Series: Bootstrap Paradox [2]
Category: Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Coma, Timey-Wimey, the blue period of the finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 03:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14608614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theeniebean/pseuds/Theeniebean
Summary: Sam goes shopping.





	A Tesco Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Warning 1: I haven't written anything in over a year.  
> Warning 2: I am three beers in, so I'm really, really sorry  
> Warning 3: I have a multi-chapter fic idea with timey wimey nonsense and this is me feeling the waters.
> 
> The stories in this series aren't necessarily in chronological order (yet), but should function together all the same.

The packaging all blended together; he looked up at the aisle signs for guidance, but found himself looking around, just as misdirected as he'd been before. He'd gotten stuck looking at a can of hoops for what felt like hours before he'd set it down with a shake of his head. The tie around his neck felt like a noose, stifling; he really should have taken it off the moment he had sunk into his car after work. The metro was packed with people just off work, him included, all halogen bulbs and sterility. He tugged at the tie, twitching. He should've just gotten takeaway. He should have taken his mum up on the offer to do it for him, but no, he'd wanted autonomy after all these months of - 

With another shake, Sam pointed himself toward the poultry - easy enough to muster a decent meal minus any real effort. A return to the status quo; beginning to do things that he'd enjoyed before the accident. Even if they were things he'd enjoyed during the accident, even though the 'during' was all just some sort of coping mechanism that he'd - he shook his head again. Productivity. That's what his shrin - psychologist advised, even as the voice in his head argued that a sensible man would be at the pub right now, having been productive all day catching villains. Not that he caught many baddies these days, he corrected, and then correcting himself against the correction, because he'd not caught anyone in months, not really. Dr. Adler posited that doing things he enjoyed would help him adjust. He felt his face twist in thought; lemon chicken might at least - 

That's when he'd heard it, the next aisle over. Ears straining, the chill of the chicken package biting his fingers, he crept toward the end cap and peered around the discount DVDs. There, again, that voice – the man must be going on seventy, and, and - and his mind must be playing tricks on him again. Figments. Delusions. Constructs. Just like that time in the waiting room on the way to physio. That other time in the chief superintendent’s office, when he'd shit himself over a yellowing photograph hanging on the wall. He shook his head again and unceremoniously dropped the chicken into his basket, only remembering the cilantro he’d arbitrarily tossed in after it had been suitably crushed. 

And then he saw himself pry a bottle of scotch out of Gene's hand. 

Sam felt his entire brain twitch. Gene - a dead ringer for him, Sam corrected, because age-appropriate figments didn't just loiter in the alcohol aisle of Tesco in 2007...or maybe they did if they had the audacity to be Gene Hunt and this was actually the most likely place to hallucinate the man - snatched another bottle from the shelf, popping it into the cart with the dirtiest of looks directed at Sam's wizened doppelganger. The grey Sam sighed - because delusional trouble loves company, so why wouldn’t he be there too – and placed his nabbed goods back onto the shelf, twisting the bottle so the label faced forward. "You know what the doctor said, guv."

Guv.

"I don't give two bloody shits about what that quack said." Gene retorted, wheeling the cart around like a man on a mission. "The way you were bangin' on about drinkin' this an' smokin' that ten years ago, I'd have been dead n' buried by now, so stuff it, I know what I'm doin'." Sam - the other Sam, the totally, completely imaginary Sam, somehow still wearing a leather jacket despite being seven years over implausibly ancient and looking as off-put as he imagined he'd feel if he'd even had any feelings left to deposit into this situation - rolled his eyes up toward the fluorescent lights. Together, they strolled toward the snack foods; Sam ducked back around as they passed, breath held for fear of reality shattering around himself in the middle of a metro. 

Twenty-something uni students eyed him as he stood stone-still against the chill of the open refrigeration shelves. One of them might have asked if he was alright, for all that he'd probably, hopefully, please let him have responded. He nodded awkwardly, trying to look as though he’d taken a step back to better inspect the selection. Just down the way, two old men argued about the merits of party rings in a balanced diet. 

Sam set his basket down with an extended breath, rounded the corner, and disappeared.


End file.
